


Crazy Heat Love

by Ruyu



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Summer, heat wave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-04
Updated: 2011-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:46:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruyu/pseuds/Ruyu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John can scarcely believe it sometimes. He can still taste concrete and chlorine on his tongue. To everyone else it’s a Monday, a weekend or a wonderful lunch with friends, but he knows (again) that each day is special. He is reminded each time he inhales, exhales, puts his shirt on, and takes it off with the sweat from his days work sticky against his back. It feels good to live now. Doesn’t hurt like it used to. And Sherlock...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crazy Heat Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kispexi2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kispexi2/gifts).



JUNE 22  
John can scarcely believe it sometimes. He can still taste concrete and chlorine on his tongue. To everyone else it’s a Monday, a weekend or a wonderful lunch with friends, but he knows (again) that each day is special. He is reminded each time he inhales, exhales, puts his shirt on, and takes it off with the sweat from his days work sticky against his back. It feels good to live now. Doesn’t hurt like it used to. And Sherlock...

 

John can only stare at the man’s wrinkled collar and the sharp lines of his coat and feel the heat of the room.

 

****

 

JULY 5  
It’s a Tuesday afternoon when John treats a boy with a sprained ankle. He’s a young man, only twenty-two with a slim, fit body. The strength he contains makes John hum beneath his breath, nimble fingers wrapping the boy’s ankle. John’s eyes wander curiously, surveying each length of muscle, his freckled kneecaps and he wonders what Sherlock looked like at this age. Nervous sweat pools at the base of the boy’s throat, slick and staining on his white collar.

 

The entire ride home, John wonders if Sherlock would let him lick the sweat from his skin.

 

****

 

AUGUST 9  
They’re stuck in the smallest fucking elevator Sherlock’s ever been in. John is crowded against him, awash with heat and breathing shallow. He’s just small enough that he can tuck his head under Sherlock’s chin, and he fits perfectly against him. Sherlock watches, enthralled, as John pointedly keeps his face turned away from Sherlock, trying so hard not to touch or breathe near him. Sherlock jostles against him with the elevators motion and John gasps quietly and then nervously coughs.

 

Sherlock is mesmerized by the blush on John’s face. He’s surprised that he’s mesmerized by it at all actually. Brilliant.

 

****

 

AUGUST 20  
Sherlock is sick and John is not surprised. It one of the few things he’s actually not surprised by. The detective runs himself ragged, unknowingly starves himself and let’s not gets started on the sleep deprivation. He’s sick and John told him so, like, a million times. He’s smug, and that’s fine.

 

Smug or not, it doesn’t stop him from treating Sherlock like something precious, because John would never, never forgive himself if something happened to him. He knows he would never practice medicine again and would never love again either.

 

Would never love another like he loves this man.

 

****

 

SEPTEMBER  
No cool air is to be found in their flat - or London for that matter. It’s stifling, sticky, uncomfortable and just plain hot. Sherlock can feel it on his cheeks, his forehead, and the dip of his lower back. The sweat just pours from him in small rivulets. He’s flushed and irritated and the few remaining ice cubes crack and shatter under the heat in his cup, submitting to the heat. John stops behind him and places a cold cloth on Sherlock’s neck, wet fingers brushing through his sweat-damp hair.

 

He feels more than heat between them now.

 

******

 

“I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

 

John slides his palm across his cheek, moisture gathering on his palm, slick against slick, just pushing around what’s already there. The heat and sweating are unavoidable. Intolerable.

 

Across the room, Sherlock pouts and heads towards the sofa. He lands with a bone-weary flop into the cushions. His too-thin, but as of right now, too-thick shirt rides up his damp torso.

 

There aren’t many clothes left for either of them to shed. They’re down to their thinnest and shortest pants. Sherlock’s being green and blue pinstripes and John’s are the ever loyal, Union Jack. He doesn’t feel foolish in them. He’s getting air to his much needed anatomy. Thank you very much.

 

John has been not watching Sherlock for several hours now. After the detective’s button-up shirt came off to reveal a thin v-neck tee, John pointedly looked away. Sweat is pooling in every dip of Sherlock’s body, he’s practically glistening and John nearly hates himself for wanting to help remove the sweat from his friend’s pale body.

 

Or maybe it’s because he wants them to sweat more. Fooling around can be a slippery business.

 

Sherlock makes several more trips from the icebox to the couch, each time swearing at the melting rate of his ice cubes. John scoffs and adds dryly, “Not even the ice can survive this heat.”

 

“I’m quite sure my eye balls will soon melt,” Sherlock remarks in return, staring longingly into his cup, willing the ice not to melt.

 

John returns to his not watching Sherlock campaign, dropping into a light sleep as he does so.

 

When he wakes, Sherlock is by the doorway, leaning against a bit of empty wall - looking miserable and quite possibly like a drowned rat. But an attractive rat - or mouse, whichever is less threatening. He’s doing that spread thing that people do when they just can’t bear their own body heat. Arms away from the sides, legs spread, thighs wide apart, and head tilted back. Very Vitruvian-esque.

 

“I’m buying a human sized freezer when this is over,” Sherlock nearly whimpers, shifting to find another cool patch of wall to plaster himself against. “John...” he whines.

 

It’s the heat that’s getting to his head. Making him think impossible things like if he were to waltz up to Sherlock and kiss him, the heat wave would break and all would be well; like how slick Sherlock’s belly would be beneath his equally damp fingers. And perhaps if Sherlock bit him, the sharp pain would make him forget the heat and how heavy his chest feels.

 

It’s the fucking heat, man. Crazy shit in the brain being thought.

 

“We need ice.” John peels himself from the chair and heads to the kitchen.

 

Sherlock groans from the other room. “Useless. Useless. John, can’t we just go to Bart’s and sleep in the morgue’s body lockers? They have freezers there. Actual human size freezers.”

 

In the kitchen, John strips his shirt and tosses it... somewhere, and retrieves a handful of ice and begins the impossible.

 

Truthfully, John’s breaking point has been building with the heat wave. The rising degrees have slowly stripped away any inhibitions he’s had about approaching Sherlock and just fucking saying what needs to be said.

 

But how do you say everything? How do you tell a person that they are the most important thing in the world?

 

The freezer gives a half-hearted rattle and puffs slightly cool air into John’s face.

 

There are words he could say, or breathe against Sherlock’s neck. Codes he could tap into Sherlock’s skin and blood he could leave welling up from his bitten lips. There are those words, but would Sherlock understand them?

 

Ice cubes in hand, cracking fitfully in a small cup, John turns to see Sherlock watching him oddly from the middle of the sitting room. “Having a conversation with the freezer, are we?”

 

John wants to laugh, but his eyes cut to Sherlock’s chest, bare and shining, shirtless and God, John wants to be up against him.

 

Sherlock’s eyes widen as John approaches him, probably looking rather wild and overly determined. But his goal is achieved as he manhandles Sherlock back to the wall on which he was previously leaning and shoves an ice cube into his own mouth and seals it over Sherlock’s.

 

What John finds most surprising is that there is no resistance. He falls into Sherlock’s body like melted butter, glossy-smooth and frictionless, their bodies slipping into place like cogs in a machine. Mouths opening effortlessly to each other. The ice has no chance between their combined heat and quickly melts into nothing, the excess liquid dripping from the corners of their mouths.

 

Yes, it’s hot and yes, their bodies are completely sopping with sweat, but John can’t find a reason to pull their bodies apart and apparently, neither can Sherlock.

 

They pull apart, breathing deep and uneven, too excited and relieved (on John’s part at least) to do much else beyond holding each other close. Sherlock smiles and dips his head to nose at John’s neck, pressing small kisses to his tendons and the small space behind his ear.

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock says softly, fingers pushing through the hair at the base of John’s neck. “I would have never been able to do that myself.”

 

There are more kisses and yeah, the heat isn’t all that bad when it’s like this.

 

“...I love you...” John blurts out quickly as he shoves an ice cube into Sherlock’s mouth, keeping him from saying anything snarky in return.

 

But then Sherlock snaps his jaw shut, breaking the ice. “Love you, too.” And then proceeds to pass the broken shards back into John’s gaping, awestruck mouth.

 

END


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